A Bit Adorable
by VictorianChik
Summary: After the events of 'Vital Signs,' Peter tells Neal to come to the house for a talk, and Neal instead wanders through New York to kill time. Peter is less than amused the next morning. Warning: spanking of an adult almost consensual


AN: This is a sequel to my other White Collar stories, but picks up right after the end of "Vital Signs." (Raise your hand if you thought that Neal singing was the best thing ever, especially that last "Sti-i-i-il" right before Peter finds him.)

Thank you Fawks Song for betaing and thank you all for reading.

------

Fridays are officially the worst day of the week, bar none. Everyone else complains about Mondays, but they don't have a bossy FBI partner who terrorizes them half to death.

It was the Friday right after the whole June's-granddaughter-needs-a-transplant-and-the-doctors-are-evil-and-tricking-Powell debacle. We figured the case out, and yes, I might have been slightly drugged at one point and suffering a headache afterwards (Peter said I did a face-plant several times as he was trying to carry me out, but I still maintain that he slapped me a few times for fun). And yes, he might have told me that it would be a bad idea to go barging around where I didn't belong, and it was a tiny bit dangerous, but my amazing ideas cracked the case; I thought he would have concluded that justice had been meted out fairly.

So my shock was understandable when, at 4:58 on Friday afternoon as I was about to leave, he told me, "I want you to come to my house later this evening."

It wasn't so much what he said, but the way he said it that got my nerves up straight away. You know that sickening feeling that hits you when you suddenly realize that something bad is about to happen? That electric spark that runs up your spine and makes your heart start to thud and you breathe a little harder and start the cold sweat?

I tried to hide that reaction. "What's up?" I said in the calmest voice I could muster.

Peter sat at his desk, unperturbed and nonchalant. "I want to discuss a few things about the last case with you."

The nervous reaction began to work its way up to hysteria. "What – what did you – why can't we talk here?"

"I think we better have this talk in private," Peter gave me a direct look and then he started packing up his papers. "Go get some food or hang out with Mozzie and come by later."

I thought about asking for more information, but I found myself hurrying out of his office and down the stairs and out of the FBI building before I could think rationally. I hate when I get the fight or flight instinct, and it hit me hard. I had to get the hell out before I blurted something that gave me away.

I walked a good five blocks before I dropped onto an empty bench to compose my frantic thoughts.

Peter was going to punish me. He was going to punish me for disobeying him and getting into trouble and having to come bail me out. And it wasn't as if I could easily talk my way out of this one – he had told me not to snoop around. He had said it was too dangerous, but I hadn't listened, not even a little bit. And now I would have to pay.

He would use that paddle on me again.

I tensed at the thought, my body jerking at the remembrance of the pain and humiliation of getting punished in that horrible way. It made me want to go back to prison, almost. I would have gladly exchanged a week in lockdown rather than have to face Peter's disappointment and have to bend over that stupid table again.

I wished I could tell someone at that point, explain to them what Peter was going to do to me. But I couldn't think of a single person who could help me once we got to this point. El might sympathize, but after the thrashing I got last time, I considered her to be on Peter's side entirely. I couldn't bear to tell Jones or Lauren, and Hughes – well, I had no idea what Hughes would think. He might decide that Peter was well within his rights (as I had given up mine when I left prison) and agree that Peter had made the correct decision, which would be dreadful, or Hughes might fire Peter, which would be worse.

I sat on the bench for half an hour, and as the sun began to set over New York City, I made a decision that would turn that Friday into one of the longest of my life. I decided to stall.

First I went to a grocery store and started shopping. I went up and down each aisle, comparing prices, but after an hour there, I went to the register and bought only a piece of gum.

Next I went to a clothing store and chatted up a pretty blond young woman behind the counter. We flirted and exchanged numbers, and when I finally left, it was almost eight.

I decided to stroll over to Times Square, and when I got there, I looked at every billboard and bright neon sign.

Peter called me at nine. I took out my cell phone and stared at it while it rang and rang. He left a message, but I didn't play it. Instead I tucked it back in my pocket and decided to go get some food.

I went to a restaurant and started ordering dinner. The waitress, a sassy tease named Jenny, smiled over all the food, and I asked if she could join me during her break. Peter called again at nine-thirty, but I let it go to voicemail and then I turned the phone off.

Jenny ate with me, and we talked about New York and what a great place it was to live. I managed to distract myself from my impending doom enough to enjoy her company. Around eleven she got off, and she grabbed my hand and pulled me in a back alley behind the restaurant.

"You're cute," she grinned at me. "Don't tell me that a pretty thing like you doesn't have a girlfriend."

"It's complicated," I grinned back. She was hot, and I could excuse my anxiety as attraction for her.

"You're not married? I don't hook up with married men."

"No, and I don't think we're quite to the point of hooking up yet," I told her. "But I'm flattered. I'm going to tell my friends that a model offered to hook up with me."

"I'm not a model," Jenny laughed.

"I'll be the judge of that," I pulled her in close. She felt warm and good to my cold fingers, and she pressed against my body to kiss my mouth hard. We made out for a few moments, and then she wrote her number on my hand.

"Call me," she whispered in my ear before reaching up to nip my earlobes. My ears are wildly sensitive, and between her tickling warm breath and the sudden nip, I could have done her right there in the alley.

But I remained a gentleman and kissed her once more before taking off.

Half an hour of walking calmed down my sexual urges, and I realized it was midnight. I turned my phone on cautiously. Peter had called me twice more, the last call around eleven. I was too scared to check the messages so I put the phone back in my pocket.

Later was later – he had said for me to come by later. Or had he said later tonight? I felt certain that he had only said later, and later could be any time after he said it. Two years from now would still be later. And should he ask, I would state that I heard later and nothing else.

New York stays up all night, and on a Friday, it's a happening place, but it's not too much fun alone. I could have called Mozzie, but he would drag the whole story out of me, and I had no desire to tell him that my beast of a partner was planning to spank me.

I could have gone home and gone to bed, but I had a fear of waking up to see Peter looming over me. He could see wherever I went with the tracker, but I felt safer in the crowded streets of New York rather than alone in my rented rooms.

Around 12:30, I ducked into an adult novelty shop to waste more time. Sex is fun, but it's kind of garish and crude in porn. I would have normally passed right by, but I thought I might as well see what was new in porn, so I went in, nodding to the tattooed chick at the counter, wondering if she had more than the eleven collective piercings in her ears, nose, eyebrows, and tongue.

These kinds of shops are never arranged in any kind of reasonable order. You think it might be divided up by gender or sexual orientation or even some kind of bodily usage, but no. Dildos were mixed with straight porn, and bondage tools were jammed into a corner with lesbian erotic. I picked up a book and flipped through it, finding three new sexual positions I had never seen before, including one I doubted that any man could fit into without bending his spine like the Golden Gate Bridge.

I turned the corner, thinking that sex objects were much better when ordered off the internet in private shame rather than bought here in public debauchery. Several other men were in the shop, one with a girl, but I felt that we were all vaguely creepy for being in the shop. Then I stopped at the sight of what greeted me on the next aisle – the S&M goods.

I stared in horror at all the paddles, whips, canes, and belts, most of them in terrifying black leather with metal rivets. There were books here, too, and movies of everyone and anyone getting spanked.

Honestly, I don't understand the world today. Why would anyone in their right mind ever agree to something like that? Why would a reasonable person with a functioning brain want to be spanked? Corporal punishment was a horrible, horrible thing that happened to innocent people like me who did not want it at all. I could not begin to fathom it being used in sex so blatantly.

Now, granted, I once smacked Kate on the ass and she smacked me back, and then we rolled all over each other on the bed and had sex, but that was completely different.

"See something you like?" someone said beside me.

I turned to see a huge biker dude in a black wife beater with a spiked collar around his neck. He was leering at me, towering over me like some kind of muscular monster.

I don't remember making a conscious decision to leave the porn shop, but the next thing I knew I was dashing down the sidewalk as fast as my legs could carry me.

Around two, I felt exhausted and I dragged my weary body into an all-night theater. I bought a ticket to whatever was playing, and I settled into a seat as the previews started.

As a toddler, I used to suck my thumb when I got nervous, but as an adult, I switched to biting the ends of my fingers. Not really biting my nails, but putting the tips of my fingers in my mouth (usually my thumb) and mindlessly chewing over and over again.

How long could I wander New York inside a two mile radius? The area of that circle was about 12 square miles, but there was only so far I could walk and so many places I could go. Even if I wandered all weekend, I still had to face Peter on Monday. I could wander before and after work, but how long would he allow me to live homeless before he tracked me and dragged me back to June's?

June wouldn't worry tonight, but how long could I stay away from her place before she called Peter? I could hide in New York forever if I really wanted to, but not with the stupid tracker on my ankle. And if I cut it off, then they were coming after me. I hated being backed into a corner.

The movie was the Rocky Horror Picture Show which brought back embarrassing memories of the time that Kate had wanted to dress me up as the main character. I had not liked the fish-net stocking, and the girdle chafed, and she had taken pictures against my protests. I would find all of those pictures eventually and destroy them. The music isn't that bad, though none of it is my style.

I must have dozed off halfway through the movie because one moment Tim Curry was frightening Susan Sarandon with his dance moves, and the next an usher was shaking my shoulder and telling me that the movie was over and I needed to leave or purchase another ticket.

I felt cold and achy as I stumbled down the dark sidewalk. I wanted nothing more than to crawl into my warm bed at June's and fall back asleep, but that would mean that Peter had won, and I could not let Peter win. At that point I was so tired I couldn't really articulate what we were fighting about, but I was going to win.

After about seven cups of coffee in a 24-hour diner, I felt slightly more coherent. I could see my reflection in the wall-length mirrors, and the circles under my eyes were only made worse by the unshaven scruff on the lower half of my face. I looked like a man who had been kicked out of the house by his incensed wife and was waiting for the morning light to go home and grovel for forgiveness. I wondered if groveling would appease Peter.

By the time dawn began to shine over the city, I straggled down the sidewalk, feeling like a zombie.

My watch said 8:23 as I edged down the sidewalk to stand right before Peter's house. It stood before me, looming like it wanted to devour me whole. I looked at it a few minutes, and then I hurried down the street.

A few minutes later, I came back to stand in front of the house. It was just a house, I reminded myself. A house that held two people very dear to me and their dog. People who cared about me, who had taken care of me when I was sick, who wanted the best for me.

I turned away and walked about fifty feet before coming back.

I stood there, staring up at the house and tried to make a decision.

----

When Neal didn't show up Friday night, I was upset to say the least. I tried not to take my temper out on El, but she must have seen it in my face because she hugged me before we got in bed. I tried calling Neal one last time, and when it went to voicemail, I snapped the phone shut angrily.

"It's okay, honey, he'll come tomorrow," she told me.

"I told him tonight, El," I replied.

"You could track him down," El suggested. "Go find him yourself."

"No," I shook my head, "I'm not doing that. He's got to learn. He has to find a way to hold himself accountable. If I keep dragging him over here to punish him, he's not learning."

"He's probably scared," El looked sad. "You don't know how intimidating you can be, Peter. You are sweet and loving to me, but Neal is a little afraid of you."

"Well, he should be," I frowned as we climbed in bed. "A little fear keeps him in line. Everyone functions well with some fear. Fear of the police keeps people from speeding and committing crimes, and fear of parents keeps children from running wild, and fear of getting fired keeps employees in line."

"Fear of you is keeping Neal away," El said.

"So I should have let the whole matter slide?" I challenged. "Just let him get away with whatever he wants?"

El glanced at me, and I said, "I'm sorry – I didn't mean that. I'm not going to turn into the sort of man who takes the frustrations of his job out on his wife."

"Neal's more than a job," El smiled. She snuggled up against me and put her head on my shoulder.

"I know," I kissed the top of her head. "That's why I have to believe he'll do the right thing."

I woke up early the next morning and took Satchmo out for a run. I came home to shower and El was fixing breakfast when I was done. I began drinking my first cup of coffee when El beckoned to me from the middle of the main room.

"What?" I went to stand beside her.

She pointed out towards the window, and I saw Neal standing on the opposite side of the road.

"What is he doing?" I growled. I gulped down some more coffee to help me think rationally.

"Should we go to the window and wave to him?"

"No, he's getting no encouragement from us,' I replied. "I told him yesterday at five o'clock to come see me. Fifteen hours later, I am not playing peek-a-boo with him at the window."

"Honey, you have to – oh, wait! Where's he going?"

We edged to the window, careful to stay out of the sunlight, and watched as Neal walked slowly away. He returned a few minutes later to gaze up at our house.

"It is adorable," El insisted. "He's like a kid who's scared to come home. Don't you remember running away as a child and being scared to come home?"

"I never ran away."

"I did several times. I ran all the way to the end of our street and then made circles in our neighbors' yards because I wasn't allowed to go past the end of the street," El smiled at the memory. "I used to leave notes telling my parents I was gone forever, but since they could see me from the house, they weren't too worried."

"For a little girl, that's adorable," I told her. "For a grown man, it's pathetic. There he goes again."

I felt my impatience grow as Neal started to wander off, and I wanted nothing more than to go to the door and shout, "Caffrey, get your ass in here."

But that wasn't what our relationship should be. If he wanted us to be more than working partners, if he wanted my friendship and mentorship and to be part of my home life, then he had to hold himself accountable. Last time he had gotten himself in trouble, I stepped back and resumed a formality that two working men would have, rather than two friends. He had shown up at my house, needing consistency and assurance that I still cared about him.

From that point on, our friendship, or relationship, or whatever we had would be a two-way street. I was not doing all the work; Neal would have to hold up his side.

Despite my steely resolve, I felt a huge rush of relief when I saw Neal cross the street over to our side. He slowly climbed the stairs and stood there. We watched him from the window, wondering if he would knock.

"Honey, I think you need to meet him halfway," El prompted.

I nodded at her wisdom and went to the door. I pulled it open fast enough to see Neal jump back in a panic.

"P-P-Peter," he stammered.

I lifted an eyebrow at him. "A few hours late, buddy."

"It's later, you said later, it's still later," he insisted, his voice high.

"It is later," I agreed. I stood back and held the door open.

He fidgeted, but made no movement to come in.

"In or out, but I'm standing here with the door open," I told him.

He drew in a breath and let it out and then dropped his head before coming in.

I wanted to start chewing him out, but I looked at him and felt slightly shocked at his appearance. He had clearly been up all night because he was wearing the same suit as yesterday. I have worn suits twice in a row, but Neal makes it a practice to switch styles and colors as often as he can. Also, this suit was rumpled with a crooked tie. I wondered where he had been all night, but he hadn't gone out of his two mile radius.

I wanted to scold him for staying up all night, but he had a choice when he went to bed, and other than coming to the house when I told him to and staying in his radius, I didn't see that I could order him around on the weekends like I did at work.

"Have a seat," I motioned to the sofa.

"Can we get you some coffee?" El asked.

"Um, no I just had about a hundred cups," he tried to smile, but he looked far too nervous so the whole effect was rather guilty. "Well, I'm – uh, here, just like you said."

"You think it's safe to wander New York all night long?" I asked.

Immediately, he turned defensive. "I didn't go anywhere dangerous, and it's New York! The city that never sleeps. There were plenty of people around."

I shrugged the matter off, not willing to agree with him, but at the same time not wanting to get into an argument about whether or not New York was safe at three in the morning.

"About what happened this past week –"

"Look, man, I'm sorry about the whole investigating without you," Neal said hastily. "I swear I won't do it again."

"I believe that you are sorry about the whole thing, but I think you're ignoring something very important. I told you not to go and you went anyway. What is that called?"

Neal flushed and fidgeted in his seat. "I don't know," he said in a small voice.

I wanted to smile, but I kept my face stern. His behavior amused me in that he hated having to admit he was wrong and that I might be the smallest bit right. I wondered if he would reach a place where he would agree that I knew best, without having to punish him first.

"Neal, you're smart enough to know," I prompted.

"Well, I'm not saying it," Neal got that stubborn look on his face. "I don't have to say anything. If fact, I don't even have to be here."

"Fine, there's the door," I motioned. I felt El shift restlessly beside me, but I stood my ground.

He looked at the door and then at me. Then El, door, El, and finally back to me. "You want me to leave?" he sounded worried.

"I don't want you to leave, but if you're here, you're here by your choice."

"I'm here because you told me to be."

"I told you to be here because what you did on the job was unacceptable. You disobeyed me, you went to investigate Powel and got caught, and I had to rescue you and steal the tape."

"You're mad that you had to _rescue_ me?" Neal's tone had an ugly shade.

"You could have been badly hurt. They drugged you – what if they had decided it was easier to kill you and dump your body in the river?"

"That's not fair," Neal glanced down at his hands. "You rescued me because that's what partners do. And you shouldn't be mad now because friends forgive friends."

"We went over this last time," I insisted. "You are not calling all the shots in our relationship – not at work and not out of work. It's not going to be all your way."

"You want it to be all your way," Neal scowled. "You want to call all the shots."

"You told me," I pointed a finger at him, "to get you out of prison and on my team because you wanted it. You brought up the matter of being released into my custody. You've been good at helping us solve cases, but you will answer to me when you put your life in danger because I want it to stop."

"You want to punish me, and I don't like it!" he declared.

"It's punishment – you're not supposed to like it. I wish you could listen to me and behave yourself, but you won't, and I'm about to paddle your behind."

"It's not fair – no one spanks you when you screw up," Neal objected.

"And when do I screw up?" I challenged.

El moved, and I turned to see her hiding her mouth with her hand.

"Something funny?" I asked.

"Just the idea of someone spanking you," she smiled, trying to hide it. "I tried to picture you bending over Hughes' desk, and I couldn't even imagine it."

"El, not helping," I told her, attempting to remain calm.

"Sorry," she schooled her face. "Sorry, won't happen again."

"Oh, really funny," Neal was sarcastic. "No one can even picture Peter getting punished because he's perfect, but I get corporal punishment because I respond _soooo_ well to it."

"You do respond well to it," I retorted.

"Shut up, Peter!" he snapped.

"Now you're just digging yourself in deeper," I shook my head. "Don't you think you've stalled long enough? Let's just get this over with."

"Easy to say when you're not getting spanked," he picked at imaginary lint on his trousers.

"You look me in the eye and tell me you don't deserve a thrashing, and I'll let you off," I said.

"Peter?" El looked at me, confused.

"'I'm serious," I continued to Neal. "Tell me your behavior doesn't warrant reprimand, and we'll forget this whole thing."

Several different emotions flickered over Neal's face – hope, confusion, fear, and finally suspicion.

"This is a trap," he decided.

"No trap," I held my hands out. "If you think you did the right thing, you are welcome to leave now, and I'll see you Monday."

"Ah-ha!" Neal suddenly pointed at me. "I see where this is going. I say no, and I get the silent treatment."

"No silent treatment. We'll still talk."

"Is it going to be all formal like last time? Are you going to be super polite until I can't stand it anymore?"

"Well, yes, wouldn't that make sense? If you are going to be reckless and get yourself into dangerous situations, either I distance myself from you or I take you in hand and ensure you don't do something like this again."

Neal actually jerked himself on the sofa, looking extremely frustrated. "Stop using logic," he pouted. "I don't want to be spanked."

Sometimes I think Neal regresses to a five-year-old when he can't get his way. Most of the time he's a self-assured (if annoying) adult, but at times (usually when he's tired or hungry) I feel like I'm battling wits with a toddler. I have trouble believing that the man who was glaring at everything as he sat cross-armed on the sofa was the same man who had avoided the FBI for three years.

"I'm giving you to the count of five," I told him. "Then you decide the table or the door."

"I choose the sofa!" Neal grabbed onto a cushion and pushed himself deeper into the sofa.

"The sofa is not an option. If you choose to sit here, I'm calling Hughes and telling him about the whole incident . . . and the Yinyack Manuscripts."

"What are the Yinyack Manuscripts?" El asked.

"I told you about that when I was drugged!" Neal nearly shouted.

"That's right," I nodded. "And if you hadn't been drugged, you could have kept it a secret. And why were you drugged, again?"

"Because I like getting into trouble!" he stomped his foot on the floor, clearly in a temper.

"You stomp your foot on my floor one more time, and I'll paddle you bare," I threatened.

His blue eyes got big. "You wouldn't dare."

"Go ahead and try it," I told him.

"Honey, can I see you in the kitchen for a moment?" El grabbed my arm and tugged.

"You stay right there, and I can hear if you stomp again," I warned Neal as I went.

"What are you doing?" El whispered as soon as we were in there.

"What do you mean?"

"You know Neal isn't going to back down from a challenge. Why are you goading him?"

"I'm not goading him – I'm trying to give him a chance to make the right decision," I kept my voice at a whisper. "This has to be a two-way street, El. I can't let him run the show, going off and doing whatever he wants. It puts my career in jeopardy, and it puts Neal in extreme danger. If I hadn't gotten there in time, they would have killed him."

"Surely not," El bit her lip doubtfully.

"Illegal organ harvesters usually don't have any qualms about killing anyone."

"I hate how dangerous your job is!" she hissed at me. "And I hate that you get Neal involved in dangerous cases. And I hate that you can't get him to follow the rules."

Then she stalked over to the far drawer and yanked it open. She took out the wooden bread board that we no longer used as a bread board and handed it to me. "Do your best, honey."

I took it from her. "Will do."

We came back out of the kitchen, and Neal looked twice as desperate when he caught sight of the paddle in my hand. He was biting the ends of his fingers and looking around for some escape. I put it on the table and turned to him. "Well?"

"Can't you use your hand?" he asked, nearly whining.

"Any more complaining, and I'll be using a belt."

"Does that hurt as much as a paddle?" he looked hopeless.

"I don't know," I said. "With a paddle, it moves at the speed of your arm, though I twist my wrist at the last second to make it pop a little, you know."

Neal groaned and put his face in his hands.

"With a belt though," I went on, "it swings freely from your hand. I know there's a mathematical equation to track the centrifugal force according to your swing speed, but I've heard that the end of the belt can land up to two hundred miles an hour with whiplash."

"You love torturing me," Neal said from beneath his hands.

"A little bit,' I admitted. "But not too much. You ready to get this over with?"

"The door is still an option," he dropped his hands and sighed heavily.

"If you were really going to take the door, you would have left when we were in the kitchen."

"That would have been rude."

"It's rude to keep me waiting. Let's go."

Sighing tragically, he stood up and dragged his feet into the dining room, making all sorts of faces to show just what a victim he thought himself to be.

"This can't be good for my clothes," he stared down at the paddle. You're going to rip my pants, and then what am I going to do to get home?"

"You're right," I nodded.

"Really?" his eyes went wide again.

"Yep. Drop the pants. No, no more arguing. Drop your pants, bend over, and keep yourself still."

"But –"

"You really want to argue? You think that will put me, the man about to tan your ass, in a better mood?"

"But Elizabeth . . ."

"I'll wait in the kitchen," El suggested.

"Please – my wife can see you in your boxers. You are wearing boxers, right?"

"You know, Peter," Neal yanked open his belt and thrust his pants down viciously, revealing a pair of dark gray boxers, "sometimes I think you missed your calling as medieval torturer."

"And you should have been a con artist. Oh, wait, you were," I smiled calmly.

Muttering something mean under his breath, Neal slammed his hands on the table, back in the usual position. "I'm only taking thirty."

"What?' I raised an eyebrow.

"I don't think I deserve more than that, and I'm not taking a single swat more."

I wanted to tell him I would decide when to quit, but Neal was pretty high strung and worked up by then, so I just said, "Okay, we'll see. You ready?"

"Are you going to just start or do I have to tell you why I've been bad?"

I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. "We've talked a little, and I'm guessing you know why this is happening."

"Yes," he snarled. "Still not fair . . ."

I lifted up the paddle and brought it down, soundly walloping him across the rear.

"Ah, Peter!" Neal moaned, not even trying to pretend to be stoic. "It hurts more without the pants."

"You want to pull them up and take more?" I offered.

"Ooohhh," Neal twisted back and forth in indecision. "I don't know. I guess fewer with the pants down."

"Your decision," I spanked him again.

It might be mean of me, but it gives me tremendous satisfaction to paddle Neal. I don't like inflicting pain on him, but I am glad to get him down to a place where the smugness and the flippancy are gone and I don't have to put up with arguing or attitude. And it helps me to see him as a person, not just a criminal or con artist on probation, but a regular guy with feelings and needs and emotions. I hate that he cries and he's always so clingy afterwards, but somehow this helps him understand that I'm there to support him and keep him on track. Even while drugged up to his eyeballs, Neal had told me that he trusted me more than anyone else.

I hoped he continued to trust me while I roasted his backside.

"Ow, ow, ugh! Ow, no, Peter – no more! Ouch, ow, not so hard," he pleaded during the punishment.

Somewhere around fifteen, I stopped and said, "You better never do something so foolhardy again. After I told you no and told you that story about Jimmy Burger – do you know how that makes me feel?"

"Angry?"

"Yes, and severely disappointed."

"You're – you're disappointed in me?" Neal's voice broke halfway through and he could barely finish. "I don't want you to be disa-disa – oh, Peter, don't. Don't say that."

I wanted to stand him up and assure him that he would be all right. I glanced over at El; her face was tense, but her eyes reminded me that he needed consistency.

"A few more," I told him. Starting to paddle Neal was tough, but starting again took a lot of strength as I had to ignore his sniffles and sounds of distress. I smacked him a few more times, and then the crying started. I forced myself to keep paddling him though I didn't pop my wrist as much as I had in the beginning. Somewhere around number 27, I said,

"And we would be done now if you had come last night like you were told. Since you didn't –"

_Smack, smack, smack, smack, smack!_

And we were finally done.

I sighed with relief as I dropped the paddle to the table, so happy to be done.

Neal was crying softly, not moving from his bent over position. He pulled up his pants and buckled them, but he didn't turn away from the table.

"Oh, Neal," I let out a heavy breath, "why do you have to get in so much trouble? Come here, you're okay."

I put a hand on his arm, and he turned towards me and hugged me, crying into my shoulder. He was shaking a little. "Shh, shh," I put a hand on his soft hair, "calm down."

"I should have come last night," he sniffed. He pulled back to swipe at his face. "I just started wandering all over. And-and I kissed a waitress in an alley – we made out. Then I went into a porn shop, too."

It took an enormous amount of effort not to smile at his impulsive confession. "That's okay. You're an adult. You're allowed to do those things."

He blinked away his lingering tears. "Even the porn shop?"

"Well, I don't want you bringing that stuff into the office, and I would advise you not to leave it around the house for June to find."

"I didn't buy anything," Neal swiped at his face. "And you shouldn't talk about such things in front of a lady."

El gave a short giggle and she came up to hug Neal as well. I caught the look on Neal's face as El hugged him – relaxed and eager for attention. I rolled my eyes. Now that the worst was over, he was all ready to be comforted and petted and reassured that everyone loved him. I sometimes think he'd like to sit over our laps, making puppy sounds while we scratch behind his ears.

There was always that awkward moment after Neal calmed down when he stood there and I stood there and El looked so sympathetic and no one knew what to do. Thankfully, Neal looked so tired that I went in that direction and said,

"Well, you obviously need some sleep, so you can go upstairs and sleep in the guest room for a few hours."

"No, I don't want to go up there. I'm not tired and you guys will be down here. Can't – can't I just nap on the sofa?"

"No, upstairs with you," I pointed up the stairs, but El came to my side.

"Oh, honey, let him sleep down here."

"No, it will ruin our whole Saturday because we'll have to be quiet and I can't watch the game."

Neal stared down at his shoes. "Oh, I should leave. I don't want to ruin your Saturday." He shuffled his shoe absentmindedly and reached back to rub.

Bleeding hearts of the world unite!

"Over to the sofa and take off your shoes," I ordered. "And you get a one hour nap – no more."

Neal dashed over to the sofa, toed off his shoes, and quickly got on the sofa, lying on his side. "Can Satchmo lay with me? It's kind of cold."

The boy has not an ounce of shame in his whole body. El fell right under his charm and tripped upstairs to get the dog. I shook the quilt out and laid it over him, warning,

"Don't get too comfortable. I do have plans for the day."

When Satchmo came down the stairs, he gave an excited bounce towards Neal. Neal put out his arms, and the dog (the traitor) leaped right into them. He settled down on the sofa in the crook of Neal's body, Satchmo's head snuggled down in Neal's arms.

"So sweet," El made her adorable face. She found a small pillow and went to put it under Neal's head. He had already closed his eyes, but he opened them to slits as she gently lifted up his head and tucked the pillow underneath. Neal managed a half-smile as his eyes slid shut. El fussed over him a few more minutes – brushing back his hair, making sure the quilt was high enough, and hushing the dog to stay still.

I went back in the dining room to put away the paddle. I felt slightly irked. Every time Neal came over to our house, he managed to make the whole situation all about him. Neal talking, Neal complaining, Neal bothering, Neal crying, Neal needing comfort, Neal always being the center of attention. And now –

"That has to be the most adorable thing I've ever seen," El said when I came out of the kitchen.

I didn't want to look, but of course, I had to. And yes, it was adorable with Neal and dog napping together, looking all tuckered out and peaceful. Neal even kept one hand around the dog to hug him close. In sleep, he looked absolutely angelic, and it was hard to imagine that the slumbering figure whose boyish face relaxed deep in sleep could be so much trouble when he was awake.

"I wish I could get him to sleep more and get into trouble less," I admitted.

El ducked under my arm to snuggle against me. "It's cute. I want a picture of it to put on the fridge. You could look at it, too, and remember that he's not so bad when he's asleep."

"Problem is he has to be awake at work."

"You could have him take naps in the afternoon. Find a sofa and make him lie down."

I chuckled at her joking. "That would be a nice break in the middle of the day. I might even get a few minutes of quiet each day."

"I don't like the idea of him wandering around at night. Can we talk to him about that?"

"We aren't his parents, El."

"Says the man who just spanked him and put him down for a nap."

"We'll see," I gave in a little. "If it gets to be a problem, we'll have another talk."

"Don't doubt yourself, honey," El assured me. "You're the best thing that ever happened to Peter. You've rescued him, and you believe in him, and you're making him a better person."

I let the words sink in. "Oh, fine," I sighed again, "he can sleep as long as he needs."

The End


End file.
